


Eve

by thephilosophersapprentice



Series: as if these names could take our sins [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ishbalan | Ishvalan, Chronic Pain, Crisis of Faith, Edward Elric is disabled, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Edward Elric, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Trisha Elric, Vomiting, We're getting philosophical again here, conflicting worldviews, exhuming a corpse, past canonical character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-19 14:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephilosophersapprentice/pseuds/thephilosophersapprentice
Summary: An exploration in origins: Xerxes and Ishval.After Maria Ross's "death," Edward, Armstrong and Ross regroup. On returning to Resembool, Edward finally decides to face the results of his own hubris.





	1. Kinsmen Amid the Ruins

Edward stared up at the transmutation circle on the wall. Along with the inscribed geometric forms (five points, like the circle in the Fifth Laboratory), some familiar symbols were inscribed. A two-headed dragon—the sun. The activation matrix, however, had broken off and fallen, leaving Ed only able to guess at what the oddity was intended for.

Edward reached for his notebook to sketch out what was left of the circle. The sound of a footstep behind him warned him.

Ed sidestepped, grabbing his attacker by the wrist and the elbow, avoiding the cane he held and twisting the arm behind the man’s back, slamming him into the ground. “Who the hell are you? Why attack me?”

More footsteps. He was surrounded. This was bad.

“Release our brother,” one of them said at Edward’s back, the faintest trace of an accent in his voice. “Step back and be taken hostage.”

“You think that they’d offer anything in exchange for me?” Edward laughed. “I doubt it.”

“The civil war began with the death of a single child,” the man pointed out. “How are we to know what course history may take?”

Edward finally chanced a glance around him. Something twisted painfully in his chest. “You’re Ishvalans.”

“And you are Amestrian,” the man said. There was a weighty pause as the circle around him constricted.

“Stop this disgraceful display at once,” an older woman called. She made her way into the circle, leaning on a young boy’s arm. She was scarred, a patch covering one eye.

“Lady Shan,” one of the men whispered.

“Would you bring further shame to our people?” Shan continued.

“You can let him go,” the boy said. “He won’t try to hurt you again.”

Suddenly realizing that he still had the man pinned, Edward stood, releasing him. “Why let me go? You could’ve easily overwhelmed me by sheer numbers.”

“We are not beasts, even if some of us forget,” Lady Shan said. “Not all Amestrians are evil. We saw this even as our homes were destroyed. Two Amestrian doctors saved hundreds of our people… myself and Alic among them.”

“Two…” Edward froze. “Was their name Rockbell?”

“You also knew them?” the elder asked.

Edward looked down. “Not… very well. I was very young when they left for the front.”

“They saved so many lives,” Alic said.

Edward bowed his head. “I’m sure it will give their daughter some comfort and pride, knowing that.” He swallowed. “How did they die?”

“An Ishvalan patient. One of us,” Shan said softly.

“Who?” Ed demanded.

“His face was bandaged. But there was a tattoo on his right arm.”

Edward felt the world spin away from him. He dropped to his knees. “But he spared me…”

Shan’s hand—the one that was not a stump—came to rest on Edward’s shoulder. “I am sorry.” She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But then, you’re not exactly Amestrian yourself.”

Edward looked up slowly. “My mother was Tariqah of House Al-Rikh. Perhaps you knew her?”

“I believe I have heard the name,” Shan said. “But she lived far from us.”

Edward nodded, swallowing. “My own Ishvala-given name is Asim.”

“Well met, child of Ishvala,” Shan said. She raised an eyebrow at the man who had attacked Ed. “And you nearly struck a brother without first asking.”

“I know my eyes and hair don’t exactly…” Edward began.

“Hastiness is an error, my son,” Shan said. “Perhaps you would know?”

Ed swallowed, bowing slightly. “Yes, Elder.”

“Will you break bread with us, Asim?” Shan asked.

Edward glanced up at the sun. “My companions will be waiting… And I doubt you want to be seen. Thank you for your kindness.”

“May Ishvala guide your steps.”

“And yours,” Edward replied politely. “Perhaps one day we’ll meet again.”

Bowing slightly to the elder, he hurried back toward the others, pulling out his notebook to scribble down notes and sketches while the information was clear in his mind as he did.

* * *

 

Ever since coming back from his brief excursion into the ruins alone, Edward had been uncharacteristically quiet. In all her time acting as his security detail, Maria had seldom heard him quiet when he wasn’t buried up to his nose in a book. She found herself seized with the bizarre impulse to hug him—Second Lieutenant Maria Ross, hugging a major who just happened to be fifteen years old? It was the same dilemma she’d faced in the hospital after the Fifth Laboratory. Which came first, the senior officer or the child?

But then, she wasn’t exactly a second lieutenant of the Amestrian military any more. She was a fugitive. And she doubted Edward Elric would even yell at her for it.

Maria crossed the gap between them in a few quick steps and pulled Edward into a hug.

He stiffened momentarily, startled, then began to relax slowly—how sad was it that he didn’t expect affection, much less comfort? His shoulders—mismatched, one whipcord muscle, the other ringing, echoing steel—began to tremble suspiciously and _oh no, she wasn’t paid enough for this. In over your head, Maria—again._

Then Edward’s arms settled around her waist and oh, everything was all right, she hadn’t broken the youngest State Alchemist in history.

As awkward as initiating the hug had been, Edward seemed hesitant to break contact and go back to the hands-off, restrained, distant military lifestyle and a strange younger brother who never seemed to remove his armor—and Maria suddenly found herself wishing she could take him with her and run, run, run, never stop running. But that couldn’t be. He had to go back to his brother—his own career to pursue, as bizarre as that seemed. The same determination to help and protect that had directed Maria into the military certainly also drove him, and he was in a position to do some good. It would be wrong for her to selfishly claim him.

Finally Edward let go and took a step back. He swallowed. “I… just wanted to apologize, Lieutenant. I… we sort of didn’t exactly need a security detail. At least, not to protect us from Scar. In that sense, we were wasting your time…” He swallowed. “The truth is… one day when I was supposed to be eating lunch, I went out and found Scar.”

“And you didn’t—”

“Listen,” Edward said softly, but loud enough for all the others to hear. “Since before the Fifth Laboratory, have any of Scar’s victims turned up?”

“Come to think of it…” Major Armstrong said slowly.

Edward nodded. “If you must know… I don’t know why I went looking for him. Maybe out of some bizarre sense of guilt… something he said…” He scratched the back of his head, under the ponytail. “But anyway… after that, we didn’t really need protection from him. He wouldn’t harm a countryman… and I couldn’t turn one in, either.”

“A countryman?” Armstrong said. Maria was sure that he must be scrutinizing Edward’s appearance just as closely as she was—she’d noticed, before, that his skin was unseasonably tanned, too dark for spring, and now in summer he only showed a warmer flush of color—no hint of a burn. But his hair and eyes—

“Our mom was Ishvalan,” Edward said softly. “Al and I… we look more like our father.” He was blinking rapidly. “At least we didn’t have to hide in the basement at the first hint of a uniform.”

“I understand why you never told anyone,” Armstrong said. “It must have been hard for the two of you.”

Edward offered a wan smile. “We had our own reasons for me to become a State Alchemist… and of course I want to see Mom’s homeland rebuilt someday.”

“I see,” Armstrong said quietly. He put a hand on Edward’s shoulder.

Second Lieutenant Breda laughed. “You’re still a brat, Chief. But at least you’re an ambitious one—nothing wrong with that.”

* * *

 

The ride back to Resembool was quiet, an air of subtle triumph mixing with caution. Edward was alone with his thoughts for much of the ride—even the heat beating on his automail barely pierced through his thoughts to his awareness.

If there was one thing he hoped, it was that Armstrong wouldn’t tread on eggshells around him, or pull his punches—well, maybe pulling his punches would be a good thing, he was easily three times Ed’s size. But apart from that—he didn’t want the major to stop speaking his mind.

Much as he hated to admit it, Edward needed the reminder that he was still only fifteen from time to time, even if it meant that he wasn’t the confidant—the _parent_ Al deserved. Asking for help didn’t come naturally to him. He needed to be reminded that he could ask—that that was _all_ he had to do.

Edward was startled from his thoughts by the weight of Armstrong’s large hand descending gently on his right shoulder. He thought for a minute that Armstrong had made a mistake, that he would’ve expected warm, soft flesh, not hard, unforgiving metal, but Armstrong didn’t pull back. The slow gait of their horses disrupted physical contact between two riders, but Armstrong didn’t falter. Edward bit his lip, staring at the ground beneath the horses’ hooves as it gave way from rock and sand to the green he had always associated with home.

After riding for so long, he was aching in every limb and longing for the chance to walk, even though he barely had the energy for it. They reached the depot in silence.

“I thought you might take the chance to visit your mother’s grave before leaving again, Edward,” Armstrong offered.

Edward nodded. “Thanks. I think I will.” He nodded to Armstrong and Breda and limped toward the old church and the cemetery adjoining it.

* * *

 

Mom had not been buried in the Ishvalan fashion—either time. When Tariqah Al-Rikh had died, Edward and Alphonse had been too young to know any more than the prayers for the dead, known and unknown, much less the full burial rites of a funeral under Ishvala. Instead, the other residents of Resembool had kindly offered what they could—an Amestrian funeral, with the prayers and readings slightly amended.

And the second time—a disgraceful, shallow grave at the back of the house, while Edward still lay delirious from pain in the Rockbells’ guest room. The shameful concealment of his most grievous mortal sin—how badly he had wronged his mother. Tariqah, who had taught him that straying from Ishvala’s path was how one learned to do better—that transgressions could be forgiven. Tariqah, who had been lost to a god far harsher and less forgiving than loving Ishvala—lost to the laws of nature in a world too cruel for her. The cost of his straying: an innocent life, and not just one.

And all Edward could do to rectify it was the repeated recital of the prayer for the dead, a silent _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

As Edward reached the crest of the hill, he noticed a tall man in a long travelling coat standing across from Mom’s grave. Long blond hair tied back in a ponytail—the same vibrant golden shade as his own. The face had gone from his memory, but the glasses that hid the expression and the blond ponytail and the trench coat remained, an expressionless mask as the back of that coat was turned to him and Al, almost eleven years ago. It was only respect for the dead, which he’d learned at the cost of his leg and his brother, that kept him from rushing and attacking the man that had abandoned Tariqah to die.

Ed’s flesh-and-blood hand hit the plate around his thigh with a hollow ringing sound. “Hohenheim!”


	2. Father before the Grave

Edward stalked up the path to the Rockbell house, hot tears blurring the road before him. How _dare_ he. As if Edward had not done all that he could and did not know that it was still not nearly enough.

Alchemy was the perversion of the gifts of Ishvala. But Mom hadn’t seen it like that—she’d seen a tool for helping others.

But Edward hadn’t helped anyone. He had hurt Mom, hurt Alphonse. And yet, here he was, back on the path, looking a way to restore Al’s body with alchemy, because there _was_ no other way.

It was enough to make him want to scream.

Once inside, Ed stumbled, almost collapsing as the stump of his thigh throbbed. With an effort, he pulled his automail leg under him again, leaning heavily against the side table.

“Ed!” Pinako rushed into the entryway, supporting and guiding him to the couch. She hurried into the kitchen and came back out with a mug of tea. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Yeah… it was kind of spur-of-the-moment,” Ed mumbled. His voice sounded even rougher than he’d thought. The pain in his leg ebbed into a dull throb; his shoulder ached, but at least it wasn’t the bone-deep ache from when the seasons changed or when he’d severely overtaxed himself.

“I hope you’re not planning on travelling like this,” Pinako said severely. “Especially not alone. You should stay the night. We’ll see if you feel better in the morning. Doctor’s orders.” She tapped Ed’s shoulder lightly with her pipe. “You feel up to eating?”

Ed shook his head. “I think I’m just going to lie down,” he said.

“Need help getting there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll have breakfast ready for you when you get up.”

Edward limped up the stairs and almost forgot to change and take out his braid before falling into the second bed in the spare room.

* * *

 

It was dark when he woke again. The creak of the door. That was it. Slow, heavy footsteps as Hohenheim crossed the room. Edward could feel the ghost of his father’s hand, hovering over the bright hair that he’d inherited along with his mother’s skin. It burned.

 _It’s a bit too late for that now, bastard_.

As if sensing the thought, Hohenheim pulled back and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Edward rolled onto his back. Suddenly, sleep was the last thing on his mind. He covered his eyes with his right arm.

Without Winry, the house was quiet—almost painfully so. A stab of guilt slid home in his chest.

Sometimes, when he’d first had the automail attached, everything would get to be too much and Ed would try to slip out of the house into the cool night air outside. Alphonse, depending on where he was sitting, was nearly impossible to evade, but sometimes Edward would be able to make it to the door and out onto the back porch, until Al noticed that he wasn’t in the bed and came looking for him.

Edward knew the stories of every star and constellation—the Ship, the Northern Compass, the Hammer of Ishval. He knew every spot on the staircase that creaked, where to step to keep the house quiet.

Slowly, he descended the staircase. A faint glow flowed from under the door to the kitchen; Ed skirted the edge of the living room. Den’s nails clicked on the floor as he came out to meet Edward. It wouldn’t be hard, with the low voices focused on their conversation, to slip out onto the porch, look up at the distant and unchanging stars, shining steadily—the one fixed point in all their ever-shifting lives. He had to be a star for Al—a fixed point, immovable, a beacon of strength and safety.

In reality, he was merely a hollow imitation of everything they’d lost—that maybe they’d never had in the first place.

Hohenheim’s voice came, deep and even, from the kitchen. “Pinako. What they transmuted—are you _sure_ it was Trisha?”

The words froze Edward in his tracks.

Keeping close to the walls, he crept towards the sliver of golden light cast on the floorboards. Den pressed against his flesh leg.

“I didn’t even think it was human,” Pinako said.

“Did you notice the color of the hair? The skin and eyes?”

“Are…” Pinako paused, then resumed, her voice pitched higher, louder. “Are you telling me—with everything those boys went through—and then that wasn’t even their _mother_?!”

Edward felt as if the ground had been torn out from under his feet. He couldn’t find enough oxygen. His back hit the wall and he slid toward the floor.

He couldn’t stay there.

Slowly Ed pushed himself to his feet and left the house.

* * *

 

A dull, lightless dawn found him on the hill, staring at the ruins of the house he’d grown up in and the second grave that held his greatest shame. Pinako climbed the hill behind him. “Hohenheim’s gone again, if you want breakfast.”

“Granny?” Ed swallowed, his mouth dry. He could barely get the words past the lump in his throat. “We… we need to dig that thing up.”

“Are you _sure_?” Pinako asked. _As if you haven’t already suffered enough_ , she didn’t add.

“I have to _know_.” Charred timber gave way under the knuckles of his metal fist, leaving them streaked with old soot.

“At least get dressed first,” Pinako said. “It’s too chilly for you to go out in your underclothes.” She sighed, looking her age for once. “I’ll get the shovels. You go get dressed.”

* * *

 

Half an hour later, they were making their way back up the hill towards the burnt and broken foundation of the old house, spades over their shoulders, a bucket in Pinako’s hand. Stormclouds had begun to gather; Den had whimpered and refused to come out from under the porch as they left.

Edward was limping by the time they saw the old shattered timbers that had once been rafters and framing. He clutched at the seam of his automail.

“Maybe we should do this later,” Pinako said.

Edward swallowed. “No. I have to know. I have to face it. I’m not going to run away any more!”

The first raindrops hit his head and shoulders, driving and sluggish at the same time. Edward kept digging. He could feel the bolts holding his arm in place grate against his bones with every stroke of the shovel. It all started to fade into a haze of old aches and slow throbs.

Edward thrust the shovel deeper. The motion sent a jolt up his arm, stabbing into his stomach. He retched.

“Edward!” Pinako exclaimed in alarm. He waved her off with an aimless motion.

“I can’t stop now,” he choked, spitting to clear his mouth. The next few shovelfuls of dirt fell on the vomit, covering it.

The bucket filled rapidly with the rain. A foggy eternity passed before the shovel struck something that wasn’t soil.

Edward fell to his knees, digging furiously with his bare hands. He came up with a few tangled strands and rushed to the water bucket.

Even as the dirt washed away and dropped to the bottom of the bucket, the hair stayed black.

“Granny—”

“Sit there, Ed,” Pinako said, going back to the shallow grave to retrieve the last sad remains—the evidence of Edward’s crime.

Edward sat still, the whole world swaying around him with the dullness of the chilly rain, the lock of not-white hair still clutched between the fingers of his flesh hand.

Time slid by, meaningless, until he looked up again. “Edward,” Pinako said, her voice filled with some emotion he didn’t know the name of. Dread, maybe? “The femur was too long, and the pelvis was male… there’s no way that could have been your mother.”

Hysterical laughter—giddy with—relief?—bubbled up before Edward could stop it. He laughed, clutching his stomach at the pain it sent through his shoulder and leg, laughed until he didn’t have the breath to laugh any more.

“Ed!” Pinako shouted, panicked. “Pull yourself together!”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed out. “I’m fine.”

He had turned his back on Ishvala long ago. And Ishvala might have turned his back on them. Probably, Edward deserved it.

This was what happened when taboo was committed—suffering followed. It was the law of nature.

But at least he hadn’t made Mom suffer again.

This, then, was the body of a stranger—a stranger who had deserved better than to be dragged into life in this fashion, but maybe hadn’t died in pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said—Frankenstein to his predestined, doomed abomination. “The dead don’t come back… It was impossible all along. It wasn’t—I’m sorry.”

For the first time in a long time, he had hope.

* * *

 

They marked the grave with a cairn—the best they could do. Edward stood in the rain, facing east toward a break in the clouds, and said the prayer for the dying stranger aloud.

It was still a sorry recompense, but it felt fitting.

He wondered when he had lost faith. It felt like he had been caught in the middle of a black cloud for a long time.

The cloud had not gone, but for the first time he could see through it—could imagine Al smiling at him, could smell the fresh grass and the clean air.

For the first time, he thought that maybe there was a way through—a way for them to continue to live.

“Come on,” Pinako said.

Still limping, Edward followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eve--"the mother of all." In the sense of origins, I thought it fitting.
> 
> Again, I am not Jewish. I hope the contrast between Ed's kinder worldview as an Ishvalan and harsher outlook as an alchemist came across... if it didn't, I guess I'm stumped. Anyway, thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's a two-parter this time.
> 
> Once again, I am not Jewish and I apologize for any butchering of the concepts contained herein.
> 
> Finally, I do have a plan for this series--the parts that follow Brotherhood canon will all be one- or two-shots, and when we do start to get off-road, there will be more multi-chapter full-length adventures.


End file.
